Transatlanticism
by Quaxicoffelees
Summary: He sighed, sitting at the windowsill - waiting patiently for the one he loved to return home as his eyes searched the stars above. France/Canada


**So, instead of sleeping for my classes tomorrow, I had the urge to finish this up. I'm a bit miffed at some of this, and think I could have written it much better. Seriously [gah, and it's so frustrating.] But I just don't quite see how I could have, and therein lies the problem. Hum.  
I think this may be because I lacked some serious transitions between the little scene-centric snippets. And I experimented with the idea of writing only when I'm in a certain kind of mood [the fuck my life crawl under a rock and die, emotastic sort of mood.] Which means lots of insecure Canada, in case you're wondering. And mangled French.**

**Que sera sera. Ce la vie. Et cetera.**

**Inspired by the song Blue Lips by Regina Spektor, which I came across searching for historically based AMV's on youtube. I've managed to find quite a few historical Hetalia documentations with Sound Horizon music, but am slightly disappointed that there don't seem to be a lot. So if you've got any recommendations, please send them! Because I love them very much. [Even if, secretly, they aren't all that historical.]**

**I've also realized that these two fics with France are half a dozen pages long. My Russia/Canada is seriously lacking something, what with only two pages. But then again, I think this one here went on a bit too much, because I wanted to cram a lot into it. Ack.**

**Anyway, I don't own Hetalia, which is probably a good thing. I hope you enjoy! **

Wasn't this how it always was? Of course, being with the country of l'amour, he showered with romance. He was treated to only the best of the best restaurants. They walked along the river running through the heart of the city; they had ventured through dim lit parks to gaze lovingly at the sights of Paris; they would lie on the grassy banks and count the stars above them.

"Do you see the constellations there - Lyra and Aquila?" Francis would point out, tracing the stars with his hand. "Yao once told me a story of them; the Weaver-Girl and the Shepherd Boy. The Weaver Girl's father, the Sun-God, encouraged her to marry the herd boy who was shepherding on the banks of the celestial river. The father originally encouraged this marriage because she spent too much time working at her loom. The plan however worked too well. He then separated the happy couple with the celestial river so that she would do some of her work. But the Sun-God did have enough compassion for his daughter to allow her to see her husband once a year when the birds could bridge the celestial river."

The Frenchman would smile brightly, arms crossed behind his head, sighing in wonder at the dreamy mythology. But Matthew paid no mind to the legends that brought the man such joy - he was more interested in the way the man's deep blue eyes would sparkle with excitement and delight, the way his friendly and open expression would burst with such awe and admiration.

As they headed back to Francis' home, the young Canadian would idly question if he could ever stir up such intense emotions. But such thoughts were fleeting as he was drawn into the bedroom, as they descended upon the soft mattress, gentle lips falling up his own. But after their passionate escapades, he would gaze at the window, breath evening as his mind calmed, insecurities bleeding into his thoughts once more.

This was all there is…

_Burning wood, burning flesh. Searing pain as his chest burned from the inside out. There was fire, flames snapping up into the smoky clouds, bright red flickering against the dark sky. His capitol, his heart, the essence of his being - burned, razed to the ground, to a pile of ashes._

_His brother stood before him, a tall shadow glowing from the pale lights, watching apathetically as his brother - his twin, his mirror, his own blood - writhed in agony in the dirt. He screamed, he cried - why, why, why?_

_"You are nothing." Somehow, those cold words that cut through him were more painful than anything else. "You are a pawn. He doesn't care about you. He only needs you so he can get to me. He wants me. You're pathetic. Even France realized how worthless you are. That's why he gave up on you. That's why he betrayed you. That's why he sided with me. Because you mean nothing."_

_He watched as the American turned on heel, disappearing into the night. And he was alone…_

Lavender eyes fluttered open as Matthew shuddered awake. He hadn't thought about the war in quite a long time. They had eventually reached some sort of understanding, an apology of sorts. He could forgive Alfred for being so upset, for saying things he hadn't meant to say. They had both been confused and angry and let themselves lash out at each other.

That didn't change the fact that, in every lie, there was a kernel of truth.

He rolled over, untwisting the bed sheets around his legs and staring at the bathroom door. The shower was running. Francis was preparing to do something today. The other nations would begin arriving soon, as the next conference was to take place in splendid Paris that weekend. Perhaps he would be meeting up with someone…

"Ah, Mathieu, I am glad to see you are awake." The older blonde strut toward him, lavishly placing a small kiss on his hairline. "Spain and Prussia will be here in a few hours; I promised to give them a tour of my beautiful Paris. The Italy's and Germany are on the same flight, if you wish to visit with them. I'm afraid England and America won't be here until tomorrow evening - they were delayed," he added with a suggestive smirk. Matthew smiled as Francis began getting dressed; he was an expert at masquerading, forcing himself to be alright.

"Guess I should take a shower too, eh?"

"Germany, Germany! Over here, over here! Look! They've got -!"

Both Matthew and Lovino sighed as the bouncy, rambunctious Italian dragged his lover over to yet another store, eagerly flailing about as he cooed over the items in the window. He began rambling on about the fashion techniques displayed on the gorgeously expensive dress - the style of ruffles, the type of lace trimmings.

They did not notice as he slipped away, glancing over his shoulder to see the tall blonde German being dragged into the clothing boutique. He made his way over to Petit Pont, a small bridge that crossed the Seine. Indigo orbs gazed down into the water, his mind slowly creeping back into the darker corners he struggled to keep shut.

Laughter rang out on the other side, loud and sharp and familiar. He searched for the source, squinting along the bridge. There, across the river. Prussia and Spain had linked arms with Francis, the three currently cackling uproariously over something hilarious. They were having such fun.

With a sigh, Matthew turned to walk back to Francis'. He trusted Germany could take care of the Italy brothers, and if the Trio stayed close by, then nothing too bad could come about. Perhaps he could call America, or talk to Kumajirou…

It had been rather nice talking to his brother, listening to the happiness that bubbled from the springs of the Americans optimistic spirit. The conversation had brightened Matthew's day, being able to share that insight of joy.

Until Arthur had demanded Alfred pay more attention to what they were doing and promptly smashed the phone against the airplanes bathroom wall, causing the line to disconnect.

He sighed, sitting at the windowsill - waiting patiently for the one he loved to return home as his eyes searched the stars above.

Francis nipped at the hollow of his hip, stubble grazing the tender flesh of his thigh. He squirmed, shifting underneath the man. It felt so wondrously good, and he wanted more…

And that was it. He wanted more. More than just candlelit dinners and zealous sex. But what else was there?

"Mathieu," the Frenchman whispered softly into his ear, voice laden thick with lust.

He whimpered, trying to open his mouth but unable to say what was on his mind. Skilled hands ghosted downward, trailing over the pale skin of his stomach, drifting with feather-light touches, teasing him. His mind was a tumultuous chaos, pleading to stop as his body begged for more. He wanted this pleasure, this ecstasy, this feel-good feeling, but -

"I can't."

There was nothing. The touches disappeared, the warmth dissipating. He inhaled sharply, vision blurred with tears. He turned, trying to hide is shame, folding into himself. The man stood up, the bed lightly springing, released from his weight. Matthew tensed, shutting his eyes tightly as he choked back a sob. Francis was gone, he was abandon, he was alone.

"Mathieu." Lavender orbs snapped open in surprise as Francis slid beside him, pulling the young Canadian into his lap and holding him close. Talented hands caressed him, one running through his hair, the other rubbing a soothing circle between his shoulder. "What is wrong, mon cher?"

"I love you," he managed to say in a painfully sincere tone. The elder smiled tentatively, confused.

"I love you as well, mon cher. So why is it you are still crying?"

"No, no." Matthew shook his head, burying his face into Francis' shoulder. "Je taime. I _love_ you."

A tense silence followed. Would he understand, now that he had emphasized his point?

"And what makes you think that I do not love you like that?"

Too many memories, too many doubts, ran through the Canadians mind. Without realizing it, his jumbled worries spilled out in an endless stream of thought, each event slipping past his lips in a hectic torrent of scattered notions.

"America was more important to England, but you were - and then you left me to him, and he - you chose America, you fought against me for him - it's always him, isn't it? Revolutions… I fought for him, for you, but no one remembers - no one cares. I was loyal - my people, we never gave up, we never ran off like - I died for you. But it's always about America - Alfred, he's the hero. I'm just a shadow, eh?" He shuddered, fidgeting as he continued on with his rant, emotions spurring confidence. "England still thinks I'm a child - he doesn't notice me, but when he does - and Alfred too, I'm never good enough for them - for anyone. Even, even Kumajirou - they always say not to listen to you. Because you are too free - open minded, loving everyone, sleeping around - you flaunt yourself to anything that moves and - I'm just another in a long list. I don't mean anything…"

He was jolted from his downward spiral as Francis held him at arms length. The mans gaze was an incomprehensible wash of misery. Heartbroken, crushed - nothing could begin to describe the sympathy, the guilt that flickered behind the Frenchman's eyes. He was devastated by those broken words.

And then Matthew found himself violently tugged back into the mans hold, arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Please, please do not think such things. You are very precious to me; do not doubt that. How can I…"

"You call everyone darling or some other pet name, you always treat people to only the best of Paris. To you, showing affection is second nature. But I - I don't know - I don't think I could - what would I do without you? I'm just - I'm afraid you'll leave. And it hurt so much. I don't think I can handle that again."

"… forgive me, Mathieu. Je t'aime de tout mon coeur." Matthew sighed, clinging desperately as he pressed himself closer, deeper into the mans embrace. Tomorrow…

The sun flowed through the curtains, golden rays casting light upon the Frenchman sleeping beside him. It illuminated his peaceful face, smooth and relaxed. His arm was wrapped loosely around the young mans waist, possessive but not obsessively so. Lazily, one deep blue eye opened curiously, lips twitching into a smile as he leaned forward to place a simple kiss on the Canadian's lips.

"Je suis desole," Matthew whispered, looking anywhere but those remarkable blue eyes. They were more like oceans, so deep and dark that he could drown.

"What do you have to be sorry for, mon amour?"

"Last night, I - I got carried away, and - " He was interrupted as Francis hooked a finger beneath his chin, drawing him in for yet another tender kiss.

"Do not apologize, Mathieu. It is not good to keep all that inside. I am glad that you were able to tell me such things. I did not know what you had wanted before, and now that I do." He drifted off, grin widening. "Well, England and America will be here between eight and nine. Which gives us… ten hours. Go shower and get dressed, for I am going to take you out today."

The one before her was different. There was no blatant charm, no seductive glances. He stood perfectly before her, which was something unlike that which she was accustomed to. Usually he was leaning toward her, suggestively implying some lewd idea or another. No, now he was merely there, watching the smaller blonde study the chocolates on display.

"Bonjour, France," she cooed as he stepped closer to the register, batting her eyes at him. He chuckled, shaking his head. Her playful mood fell, mouth tugged down into a frown of annoyance. "What's up with you today?"

"Ah, Minette! Do forgive me," he replied sweetly, hands behind his back. She raised an eyebrow, inquisitive at his peculiar behavior.

"No hugs, no kisses? No flirting? My, the world must be coming to an end! God save our souls," she teased, her tone light but face still serious. He continued to smile, turning his attention back to the young man. She glanced his way, soaking up a quick study of the blonde nervously biting his lip in concentration.

"Oh, I see. So you've found a new novelty to entertain yourself with?"

"Non," he said dreamily, an underlying tone of something hard and much more serious. "This is the one who has captured my heart."

Shock could not even begin to describe her gaping form. Minette had known her country personification her entire life. She did, after all, live right down the street from his home. She had inherited the confections store that had been passed down for generations, and was only one of a long line to know who Francis truly was. He had spoiled her as a child, lavishing her mother with trinkets. He had undoubtedly made himself popular in the beds of all her female ancestors, herself included in that one night stand that seemed so long ago. She had known him to be quite - worldly. Manwhore, prostitute, she would tease him.

For him to have finally settled down was beyond her comprehension.

"Ah, Francis," the young man trotted toward them, holding up small box of Michel Chaudun paves. "Is this good?"

"But of course, mon amour," the Frenchman assured, a special expression for him alone lighting his face. She had never seen him look so - content. She'd never seen him treat his lovers, either - sight seeing and dinner, but never gifts. Such tokens of admiration only made things more intimate. Though Francis was always one to be the center of attention, he was never one to offer more than what could be given back.

This boy must be special indeed.

"You have made a remarkable choice," she started, ringing up the box with her happy-to-serve-the-customer joy. But her words were mostly directed toward the men themselves, not the chocolates.

"Mathieu, this is my friend Minette. Minette, this is mon couer, Canada." The young man flushed a darling shade of pink, lavender eyes flashing behind his glasses.

"Oh!" Oh. Now she understood. She knew her basic history. Canada was a very important nation to France. Well, it would only make sense then, she supposed. Ah, how magnificent for them. This was spectacular. And he was so adorable, with his shy and timid disposition.

"I am glad that someone has finally tamed this madman," she joked happily. But Francis was still her country; he was a father, an older brother, everything to her. "You take good care of him, got it?"

Again, she didn't specify towards either of them, hinting instead for the two to take care of each other. There was promise there, the tender glances at each other, the way the taller blonde slid an arm around the Canadians waist, their hands intertwined as they left with blissful smiles.

And that, for her, was enough to ensure that all would be well.

It was a fairly common misconception that water was blue. Unless from a distance, far out above the planet, high up in space. Where cameras took pictures of their small niche in the universe, orbiting around and around.

He stood on the bridge, waiting patiently as his thoughts lazily swam through the currents of his mind. The river was supposedly blue. It was one of many veins running through the heart of Paris.

"Ah, Mathieu. I am sorry to have kept you waiting." The blonde Canadian turned his attention from the river below, facing the Frenchman before him. That there, that was blue. A true blue color, with such depth and vivacity.

But his eyes weren't completely blue. Not like the blood coursing beneath their skin. No - if one looked closer, paid a bit more attention, they would see the flecks of brown, tinted a turquoise shade of green. As he came upon his epiphany, he caught his reflection. Within those eyes lay the world. His world.

"Is something wrong, mon amour?" Francis started, raising an eyebrow at the blank stare. Embarrassed, a soft pink shade blossomed across the young mans cheeks, a curtain of gold cascading forward to veil his face. "Now, now - it is a shame to hide such beauty. What were you thinking?"

"Your eyes," Matthew started, still burning red as he reluctantly faced the man.

"Oh?" was the prompted inquiry of curiosity.

"They are like the earth." Francis laughed, not in mockery but in appreciation as he wrapped his arms around Matthew's waist, placing a light kiss on the Canadian's forehead.

"You are merveilleux." There was a calm pause that lulled between them. "Ever since you came into my life, I feel like it's all been a dream. I just hope it never ends."

Flustered, the young man swatted his head, pushing him away.

"You and your stupid charm." He muttered more furious words of Francis' flirtations and seductions, cursing in both English and French as he flailed his arms in a flurry of movement, trying to rub the blush from his face.

"Ah, you are so cute," the older blonde cooed, smirking. "I see I have not lost my touch, then."

He drifted behind the Canadian, throwing an arm around his shoulder in a casual manner before leaning provocatively to breath softly on his neck.

"Eh?"

"Come, let us go home. It is getting late, and I should not keep you up past bedtime, non?"

"Bedtime?" Matthew repeated incredulously.

"Oui. But just because we must be in bed does not mean we must sleep." He nipped the young mans ear, grinning salaciously. "I have a present for you, as it is."

"What does that mean?"

"Why, the best gift of all!" Hot breath tickled his skin. "I'm giving you myself, of course."

"But - I - " he stuttered, unsure of himself as the realization dawned on him.

"Shush. You have no need to worry." He slid away gracefully, beckoning with a wave of his hand. "Come and make me yours."


End file.
